


Migraine Mastery

by SabbyStarlight



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Because pretending like that finale never happened is the only way I'm coping right now, Brakebills, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 03:05:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18512614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SabbyStarlight/pseuds/SabbyStarlight
Summary: “Q?”  He asked, taking care to pitch his voice low.  “What’s wrong?”“Headache.”  Quentin finally answered in a whisper.Eliot nodded slowly, having already determined that much, and took in his newfound friend’s prone body, curled in on itself in the corner of the sofa.  His tense shoulders and forearm pressed tightly against his eyes in an attempt to block out the sun.  “Just a headache or full-blown migraine?”  He asked finally.“Doesn’t matter.  Hurts.”  Was the only reply Quentin could muster, causing Eliot’s panic to spike up another notch.Or:  I just needed some season one fluff and thought maybe y'all did too





	Migraine Mastery

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Spoilers ahead! Nothing in the fic though, so just skip down past the AN if you don’t wanna find out how it ends. 
> 
> Okay, so that episode was worse than I ever could have imagined. The writing was awful, and lazy, with complete disregard for Quentin’s mental health (not to mention the health of any fan dealing with depression) or consistency. They decided to end Q’s story by having him lose his battle with suicide and I have never felt so disappointed in a show. And then they completely threw all the progress Eliot had made in 4x05 out the window by giving him ZERO interaction with Quentin and breaking my heart more than I ever thought was possible, despite how the writers and showrunners were super happy to take credit for all the positive press Escape From the Happy Place received. And then they topped it off, the cherry on top, by announcing that Jason is leaving the show. That really was it, how they were closing Quentin’s story. The end. I’m just dumbfounded and sickened and hurt and furious, a complete mess of emotions and am dealing with it by alternating between writing fic and ranting on Tumblr. 
> 
> Anyway, let’s go back to a happier time, shall we? How about all the way back, like, to some old school, early season one Queliot fluff? I’ve had this halfway finished for a while but now feels like the perfect time to finish it and turn my pain into art and go back to a time where, no matter how bad I imagined things ending up for these two, I never dreamed it would end like this.

It’s nearly midday when Eliot makes his way down the staircase of the Physical Kid’s Cottage if the golden light filtering through the window panes is any indication of the time. He smiled as he reached up to adjust his paisley tie, thankful that his status as an upperclassman had finally allowed him to schedule his classes to coincide with his night-owl tendencies. Not that he was an all too frequent attendee to those classes no matter their time. He paused at the foot of the stairs, debating if it was too early to meet Margo for their weekly date of portaling to the city for brunch when he caught the tiniest of movements out of the corner of his eye. 

He turned on his heel, eyes quickly scanning the cottage’s spacious living room, and his smile grew into a full-fledged grin when he spotted Quentin Coldwater curled up into a corner of one of the sofas. Brunch plans forgotten, he made his way over, shaking his head when he had to carefully kick through the piles of magical texts and spiralbound notebooks that covered the floor just to be able to perch himself on the arm of the couch nearest to Quentin. There was a piece of photocopied paper within his reach, one of many scattered nearby, so he picked it up. If the neat handwriting and extremely detailed notes were anything to go by he assumed it was a copy of Alice’s notes. Bored by the contents, he quickly folded the paper into a poorly constructed paper airplane and tossed it at Quentin’s ear. 

“You know, first-year, if you weren’t laying here skipping class you wouldn’t need to copy your girlfriend’s notes.” He teased when Quentin flicked the airplane away.

“Don’t care,” Quentin mumbled against the back of the sofa as he readjusted his arm over his eyes. “Go ‘way.”

“Rude,” A smirk tugged at the corners of Eliot’s lips as he magicked the airplane back towards him. “You look absolutely miserable. Must be one hell of a hangover. And why exactly was I not invited to the party?” 

“Not hungover,” Quentin argued, though his voice lacked conviction. “Go.” 

“Oh, I’m not leaving,” Eliot assured. “There’s either something seriously wrong with you or there’s a story to be told that’s equal parts hilarious and embarrassing. Either way, I’m invested. You might as well start talking.”

“Shhh, if you’re staying, shut up.” Quentin all but moaned, hoarse voice reverberating off the back of the sofa, before adding a soft “Please.” at the end, almost as an afterthought. 

Eliot paused, brow furrowing, as he stared down at the younger man in concern. He reached out to hover a hand just above Quentin’s shoulder, rings glinting in the amber sunlight, but pulled it back, afraid of hurting him more. “Q?” He asked, taking care to pitch his voice low. “What’s wrong?” 

“Headache.” Quentin finally answered in a whisper. 

Eliot nodded slowly, having already determined that much, and took in his newfound friend’s prone body, curled in on itself in the corner of the sofa. His tense shoulders and forearm pressed tightly against his eyes in an attempt to block out the sun. “Just a headache or full-blown migraine?” He asked finally.

“Doesn’t matter. Hurts.” Was the only reply Quentin could muster, causing Eliot’s panic to spike up another notch. 

“Okay, let’s get you to the infirmary, huh?” He asked gently, knowing that he personally would feel much better about the entire situation if someone other than himself were calling the shots. “The healers over there have to have a spell to fix this right up.” 

“If I move, I’ll die.” Quentin declared. “Just leave me alone, Eliot.” 

“Not a chance.” Eliot promised. “If you won’t go see someone who can fix it for you did you at least take something to help?” 

“Again,” Quentin sighed. “Move. Die.” 

“Alright,” Eliot laughed. “Someone’s whiny when they don’t feel good. I’m filing that away for future reference, just so you know.” He stood up, slowly so he didn’t jar the couch. “I’ll be right back.” 

He returned, moments later, after scouring the medicine cabinet in the nearest bathroom for a bottle of ibuprofen, with two pills and a glass of water. “Hey, Q.” He called softly when he made his way back into the living room. The last thing he wanted was to startle him and he had toed his way out of his shoes in the kitchen to try to keep the floorboards from creaking. “Sit up and take these for me?” 

Letting out a pitiful groan, Quentin pried his arm away from his face, squinting in Eliot’s general direction before closing his eyes tightly against the brightness. He did hold out his hand though, accepting the pills, trusting Eliot completely and not even questioning what they were. Before he could hand him the glass of water, Quentin had tossed back both pills, dry swallowing them, Adam’s apple bobbing, pulling at his throat as he worked to keep them down. 

“You know, I could make an admittedly hilarious joke about your surprisingly impressive swallowing abilities, but I think I’ll save it for a time when you can truly appreciate it.” Eliot teased, smiling at the middle finger Quentin shot his way before pulling his arm back to cover his eyes. “Seriously though, Quentin, what can I do?” 

“I’ll be fine,” he assured. “You can leave.” 

“Again, not a chance.” Eliot reminded him as he worked his way back through the maze of books across the floor, stopping for a slight detour to close the drapes in an attempt to block out the sun until he was at the couch once again. An idea wormed its way into his mind and he sighed, running a hand through his curls and scanning the room for somebody better equipped than himself to handle the situation. It was just the two of them though, so he steeled his shoulders before speaking again, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m here till you feel better. It’s just you and me so we’re gonna beat this thing together, alright?” 

He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not, but he swore it looked as if some of the tension drained from Quentin’s body at the promise that he wouldn’t be left alone to deal with his pain. God, Eliot thought, this poor, adorable boy could rival even Eliot himself in the issues department. And that revelation was motivation enough to set his plan into motion. “Alright, Q, I’m gonna try something, okay? I just need you to trust me.” 

When there was no argument from the younger man, Eliot took it as acceptance and before he could question if this was a little too forward, even for him, he quickly slipped an arm beneath Quentin’s shoulders and pulled him upwards, just enough for Eliot to slip onto the sofa beneath him so that Quentin’s head was now resting in Eliot’s lap. 

“What the hell, Waugh?” Quentin squeaked, fingers curling into fists against the sudden onslaught of pain moving had created. 

“Shhh,” Eliot soothed, passing a cool hand across Quentin’s forehead. “You’re trusting me, remember? Just relax.” 

It took a few moments, but eventually, Quentin did just that, and Eliot felt the tension in muscles dissipate as he sunk further into the couch as Eliot focused on carding his fingers through Quentin’s hair. When Q pulled his arm down from shielding his eyes and instead burrowed his face into the fabric of Eliot’s vest, he smiled, knowing that his plan had been a success. “So…” he drawled, hating to ruin the moment but selfishly needing to take advantage of Quentin’s openly vulnerable state. “Wanna tell me what brought this on?” 

He shrugged one of the shoulders against Eliot’s leg and sighed before responding. “Y’know how they couldn’t figure out my discipline?” 

“But you ended up here in the best house anyway, so it all worked out in the end,” Eliot replied.

“Well, I’m not exactly good at this magic stuff, it doesn't come as naturally to me as it seems to everyone else.” 

“You’ll get there, Q,” Eliot assured. “Give it time.” 

“I’ve just been stretching myself thin, I guess, taking any extra credit assignments offered and studying and practicing. And there was this test coming up on mineral conversions and I… oh shit.” His voice trailed off into a horrified whisper and Eliot felt all the newly dissolved tension come slamming back into Quentin’s body. “The t-test. I have, El I have to go, maybe I can make it in time,” 

“Quentin,” Eliot said, raising his voice just enough to ensure that he would be heard over Q’s mental spiral. “Breathe.” He ordered, using a hand to trap Quentin in place. “It’s going to be fine, okay? Think for a second. Even if you could make it there before the test is over, and that’s a big ‘if’ because I don’t think there’s any way you’re up to a trip across campus, do you seriously think you have a prayer of passing it in this shape anyway?” 

“I have to,” He argued, though he had stopped struggling to sit up.

“It’ll be fine,” Eliot assured. “All you have to do is stay here and get better. You have Professor Blaire, right? For Inorganic Substances? I’ll take care of it. I know her TA and he owes me a favor. We’ll have it rescheduled or get you a makeup date, just calm down.” 

“Really?” Quentin asked, voice cracking. 

“Really. But it’s not going to do anybody any good for you to go and make yourself even more miserable.” Eliot pointed out, hoping that Quentin, in his pained state, couldn’t see the cracks of his own panic breaking through his calm facade. 

“Okay,” Quentin decided, relaxing back into Eliot’s lap and reburying his face and breathing in the scent that he couldn’t identify yet other than associating it with being inherently and completely Eliot. He chose not to worry about why that scent alone was just as calming as the long fingers that had resumed their playing through his hair. 

“Okay,” Eliot agreed with a relieved smile. He had assumed, after a few silent, calm, moments passed, that Quentin had fallen asleep so he was startled when his voice rose up through the quiet room. 

“Thank you,” He whispered, voice heavy with sleep. 

“Not a problem,” Eliot whispered back. “Now get some rest, you’ll feel better when you wake up.” 

He felt Quentin’s smile, his face still pressed against Eliot’s stomach, before drifting off to sleep. 

They remained there, Quentin more relaxed than Eliot had ever seen him in the few short but eventful weeks since he had stumbled, literally, into Eliot’s life, for hours. Eliot was sure he would get bored eventually, but he was still perfectly content sitting there, idly playing with Quentin’s hair, when Margo pushed open the cottage door. 

“Thanks for skipping out on our date, bitch.” She called, seeing Eliot’s dimly lighted silhouette in the darkened room. 

He winced, thinking that he really should have texted her, but he couldn’t quite find it in himself to regret his choice. “Bambi, I love you but if you wake him up I promise, you will regret it.” He warned, words threatening but his tone teasing and light. 

“What the fuck’s wrong with him?” She asked, voice significantly quieter than when she had stormed through the door. 

“Migraine,” Eliot explained, tracing a finger lightly from Quentin’s temple down over his cheekbone. “But I think I fixed it.” 

Margo paused, not familiar with seeing this particular side of Eliot exposed around anyone other than herself, but quickly recovered before he noticed. “You and your first-year boys,” She rolled her eyes before picking up her bag and retreating up the stairs. Calling out “You still owe me brunch!” in a hissed stage whisper over her shoulder. 

“This one’s special though,” Eliot whispered, voice barely audible to his own ears, as he smiled down at Quentin, somehow feeling that their journey was just beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. I have plenty of ideas for finale tags but I don’t have it in me to write them yet. Maybe when it stops hurting so much. For now, I’m choosing to stay in MY happy place: Happy, fluffy, self-indulgent, Queliot centric fics. I’m sabbystarlight on Tumblr too, feel free to stop in if you’re in a bad place mentally after watching that giant clusterfuck of an episode and you need someone to talk to or if you are just pissed off and want to yell about it with someone. I love y’all and I’m sending hugs to our whole fandom.


End file.
